


untainted hands.

by cateeth



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, mentally im vacant and dont remember what i tagged this as anyways so dont fucking look @ me, more vague cannibalism because it wouldnt be my bullshit without it, wow wish ao3 would work and save my tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29672880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cateeth/pseuds/cateeth
Summary: spit me out, i'm your voodoo doll.
Relationships: The Homelander | John/Starlight | Annie January
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	untainted hands.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [B_Cubbins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Cubbins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tether](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700940) by [B_Cubbins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Cubbins/pseuds/B_Cubbins). 



> dedicated to my friends who makes me a worse person every day

His head is in her lap, her fingers softly rubbing his cheek and occasionally ghosting over his lips. Her nails scratch against his jaw sometimes, feeling him lean into her touch whenever she presses deeply. He’s like a cat, always keening into her touches and practically purring.

When she first joined the Seven, the _last_ thing she expected was the most deadly person alive half curled in her lap like an oversized cat, all but begging for her attention and constantly needing to be within arm’s length of her. She doesn’t know what to call it. They’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, lovers feels almost too intimate and partners doesn’t feel intimate enough. She’s someone who occasionally presses her fingers against his throat until he almost gasps for air and pulls him around on a leash, it’s really _not_ lovers. She’s technically his subordinate but probably not because, after the whole Stormfront thing, he’s most definitely demoted to the back of the team and Maeve has no interest in taking the spotlight so unless Noir or A-Train steps up, she’s going to be the face of the Seven and really, Annie doesn’t see that ending well.

But for now, she’s content to have him curled up, occasionally trying to catch her fingers in his mouth as she strokes his face. 

.

Madelyn, in the brief time that Annie had known her, had always had a weird way of handling Homelander that she’d never really understood and always skirted around. Everyone in the Seven, _hell everyone in the building_ , had known about the weird relationship between Stilwell and Homelander, it was the worst kept secret that everyone refused to talk about. Stormfront, the Nazi bitch she was, had her own way too. Again, Annie had no idea what exactly it was but judging by the loud-horrible-sex-furniture-breaking sounds that she’d heard, _she was definitely content to not know exactly what went on between them_.

She’s aiming for something in between with a healthy dose of her own bullshit.

There’s a stupid interview, they’re all standing together and she’s got her hand on his back, keeping him close. It’s like a leash, even if her nails aren’t digging into his back but she’s not willing to let him wander far without supervision anymore.

It’s realistically, not the best idea. She feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for whatever really happened to Madelyn to happen to her (because what happened according to the news was _definitely_ a lie but she’s not one to trust Butcher’s word on blind instinct alone) but to end up “burnt, severed and seriously, just the fucking worst” (according to Maeve) on the floor like Stormfront seems just as bad. The women who seem to hold his leash have an expiry date and she’s not planning on hers being soon. She’s powerful, sure. _She’s Starlight_ , an actual literal being of light that could probably eat a God if she tried but he’s the most powerful man on Earth who can take a bullet without flinching and she still remembers very well how much it hurt to be shot by Butcher. She might see herself as a _New_ God but he’s Homelander and she’s not willing to take her chances against him.

When she was a kid, her mom let her have a dog. Something about ‘a good look for your public image’ and ‘teach you responsibility. It was some little fluffy thing, she’d called it Sparkle and she’d spent ages learning exactly how to take care of it. It had pulled on the lead and she’d sat in front of a book reading exactly how to hold and use a choke chain properly so she could stop the yappy thing from running off, making sure that the chain went loose after she tugged. Her mother got rid of Sparke after she’d won _Miss Little-Supe-Iowa_ so that Annie could focus on her responsibilities and Donna yelled at her whenever she’d brought the dog up.

It felt like a pile of irrelevant skills at the time and she really didn’t expect to ever use any of them again but apparently, he’s more than content to have a collar made of interlinking metal and when she’s pulling him around the room, she’s glad she knew exactly how to put one on. She keeps it in her pocket sometimes, giving an almost impossible to hear jingle to remind him where he is in the pecking order around here. And he falls into line, quickly and softly. She’s barely scraping five foot four and he towers over her, her nose barely touches his chest, and yet, it’s sweet. Watching him collapse to his knees when she asks in her nicest voice.

She knows who she is, what she is. She’s a superhero, she’s Star- _fucking_ -light, she’s the only one keeping this stupid team together for _God knows_ what reason -- considering the fact that her loyalty to the Seven is absolutely near non-existent and until Vought dissolves into the hot mess that it is, she’s going to fake her way to the top. Even if it means being the one holding Homelander’s leash. Literally and figuratively.

.

She’s trying to burn her hand into his chest.

He’d asked for it, quite literally begged for her to do _something_ and she burns so fucking bright and hot that she’ll leave an imprint for a couple of seconds on him that looks like sunburn. Even with his eyes closed, he still complains about feeling blinded by her and she feels _so fucking alive_ in the couple of seconds that she’s burning him. He’s no longer a God, she is. He’s her kneeling Godiva and she’s fucking getting high off her own power.

The first time she heard his breathing stutter with her hand around his throat, she’s almost sure she could have gotten off on that power trip. She’s not as strong as him, _nowhere near_ but it’s the feeling of vocal cords under her fingers and the rasp of his breath, the way her flexor muscles tense and her own breath shakes with the power of it, “ _Hurt me, hurt me please._ ” He’s barely speaking, a whisper and she wishes she could eat him alive sometimes.

It’s a weird feeling. Wanting to hurt someone, wanting to devour them. She wants to splay him out, crack open his ribs, and feast on him. He’s sweet to kiss, tasting like apple pie or something stupid and she’s biting into his lip, trying to draw blood and its desire born impossibly hungry.

.

His legs are wrapped around her hips and she’s never ventured into anything that isn’t “vanilla bullshit” (Maeve’s words, not hers) and it was really, the worst conversation she’d ever had with anyone asking about strap-ons but its glittery pink and he cries when she fucks him right so it was worth discussing in the end. Following up on the _things Annie January never expected when she joined the Seven_ was Homelander being way too keen on being fucked in her bed with that stupid pink glittery strap-on while she calls him a _good boy_. Again, didn’t expect it but also, enjoying it more than she expected.

He’s splayed back across the pillows, cheeks all flushed and hair a mess; not _quite_ crying yet but she’s determined to make him by the end of the night. She’s good at getting what she wants.

His fingers are knotted into the sheets, one of his legs slipping from around her hips as she readjusts, practically melting as she hits a new spot and he’s practically sticky underneath her fingers, like honey or overripe fruit. She’s living for it, like her mouth is overflowing with pomegranate seeds and almost bruising, and he’s desperate with longing, all splitting skin, and biting. It’s the only _real_ advantage she’s missing, unable to leave a real mark on him despite her desperate attempt to burn herself into his body. She’s all slick red lipstick, it’s cheap and staining, imprinting herself into his skin the best she can.

(They’d stopped a robbery the other day, something easy and usually it would be a breeze - a matter of seconds and they’d be done with it - but he’s touching his collar the whole time and she’s watching him shift awkwardly, unable to stop crossing his legs because _they both know_ exactly how many marks she’d left on his skin. That under his suit, his suit was practically painted red with her lips and that he’d almost cried while she’d made him stay still to kiss him.)

She never considered herself weak for someone but maybe she is.

.

The ninety-ninth floor provided a one-way view into the world, staring out in the abyss of New York with no one looking back. Her room had masses of windows, illuminating her entire room with light almost constantly. She could see them. They couldn’t see her. And _fuck_ if she isn’t glad they can’t see her right now.

Standing in a pet store earlier that week dressed as one very boring Annie January and being asked _oh what kind of dog are you buying for?_ was possibly the worst question she ever could have been asked because her tongue swelled up and “ _golden retriever?_ ” She’s never going back there.

She’s tugging him around the living room, watching the metal shine against his throat and the chain tightening and loosening as she tugs, watching him almost fall as she gives a sharp pull. _God Complex_ , she thinks to herself. She feels like she’s eaten the sun. _Call me Carthage, baby_ , she says with another tug. The New York skyline illuminates the room and between her own form, they don’t need the lights on. The spare length of chain rests against his chin as she pulls, watching him squirm and the leash rolls around her wrist, pulling his face closer to hers as she leans down, “Be good, _baby_ ,” it rolls off her tongue and she’s pressing her fingers against his lips, saliva soft and, “ _my sweet, aren’t you? Always so good, so precious, aren’t you?”_

Yeah. She’d eat him alive.

.

They spend their evenings on a couch or in her bed. At some point, he moved into her room and she didn’t really didn’t notice until the few pairs of pajamas he owns (that she very much _insisted_ on him buying) just ended up living in her drawers. It depends on the night where he ends up. Sometimes they fall asleep on the couch, usually when it’s storming and she wants to watch the lightning and he’s curled up in her lap - well as much as a six-foot-something man can be curled up in the of a not quite five-foot-four woman - usually with her fingers in his mouth or buried in his hair. Whenever they end up in bed, it’s usually with him curled up at her feet (which, really, she still doesn’t _quite_ understand) until she either half-hauls him up into the bed properly beside of her so she can wrap herself around him or until she inevitably wakes up with him wrapped around her.

She doesn’t want to talk about what it is.

It’s going to be an uncomfortable situation but she’s made it clear it doesn’t exist in the public eye. She’s not going to stand by his side and say corny things while holding his hand and everyone watches. That was Stormfront’s job and fuck if she’s willing to take lessons from that bitch. She doesn’t need her mother or everyone she grew up knowing what she’s doing, even if it’s for their benefit.

_You shouldn’t leave a mad dog untethered_ , she’d once read, _they’ll kill everything in their path_. So she’s holding the leash and hoping he won’t turn around and bite her anytime soon. She might have super healing but Annie isn’t willing to bet on herself surviving having her skull melted in with laser eyes anytime soon.

.

He’s sitting beside her, neatly perched on a cushion she’s plucked from the couch. At some point, she got sick of him stealing food right off her plate and decided that it would be easier to double stock her plate and hand feed him because he won’t sit down and eat and only steals food off her plate. This made the most sense. Or, it was the easiest way to stop him from stealing from her plate and he’s more than content to be curled up at her feet.

In his own way, he’s a funny little creature. Her plate’s pre-cut up, potato and steak into bite-sized pieces, stabbed onto the end of her fork and between her taking her own bites, she’ll pass him some. Sometimes it’s with the fork and she’ll laugh to herself as she hears his teeth shatter against the metal. It’s mostly with her fingers, feeling his tongue curl around the pads of her fingers as she hands him a tiny piece of food. He rests his head against her thigh, all curled up and she’ll occasionally pass her wine glass down to him. It’s very sweet, tender almost. It’s always late in the evening, devoid of his suit and she’s already run her fingers through his hair enough to remove its style so he’s soft, bits of his hair sticking up and she’s cooing at him, calling him _duckling_.

Again, she really didn’t expect the most deadly man alive to be a creature she would hand feed and trust not to bite her fingers off.

.

The list of things she _actually_ knows about him is short. She’d figured quickly enough that his backstory was falsified by a PR team but she hadn’t known how much. (She’s still not sure _how much_ because her information came from Hughie who got it from Butcher and again, she’s really not willing to trust everything that comes out of his mouth). She’s also not sure enough in her power that she can outright ask, _hey was your childhood, or lack therefore of, as fucked up as I heard it was?_ That would definitely earn her laser eyes to the head.

But she’s missing calls from her mother, dodging her whenever she shows up at the Tower when he brings it up one night.

“Why do you keep avoiding her?”

And it opens the floodgates. She’s spilling out stories about Supe pageants and dieting and growing up with no friends, about how her mother drove her father away and took away the dreams she didn’t have _but should have been allowed to have_. There are a thousand things that she could have done but never got the chance because Donna January wasn’t born a superhero and wanted to be so she figured making her daughter into one was the next best thing. About how she’s so deeply buried into the identity of Starlight that she isn’t sure _where_ the hero ends and Annie January begins. That it’s not a fake name, it’s not a made-up alias. Annie January is, _or was_ , a living, breathing person with dreams and hopes that got snatched from her the moment that her mother took Vought’s offer.

She’s too busy ranting to hear him start to cry at first.

So she’s pushing his hair back, wiping away the tears and soft kisses to his cheeks; almost cooing at him like one would with a distressed animal. _So?_ She gets the truth. Or at least, his version of the truth. About the laboratories and the testing and the hydrogen bomb and everything in-between. She listens intently and quietly, occasionally twisting his hair around her fingers and staring with intent. 

Because sure, he is an awful person. _Scratch that_. Probably one of the worst people alive. She knows what he’s done, what he’s capable of, and that there’s plenty more that she’ll never know he’s done that’s even worse than she knows. She also knows very well that bad parenting isn’t an excuse for mass genocide but fuck if it doesn’t make some sense.

He wasn’t raised as a person. He was raised as a doll. Just like her.

Even if he was supposed to be an action figure, designed to be beloved and adored, to protect the Earth and be seen as a beacon of hope, and she’s nothing more than a little figure inside a music box, spinning around and around endlessly; she understands. The dehumanization, the loss of self-identity. _Not knowing where you begin or end_. Because she really doesn’t know any more about where her edges are since Annie January should be a person but she’s starting to feel dizzy from spinning around in that box so long.

She’s not a bad person. _Or well, she doesn’t think she is_ . She’s killed one person and it was an accident. She’s got morality and knows that Stormfront was bad, Vought is bad. That Becca and Robin deserve justice for what happened to them and that she wants it for them but she’s starting to feel a little bad when she’s curled up with him. He’s killed more than she could count. He’s done things she can’t even say out loud without her throat feeling like it’s going to swell up but it’s a little terrifying to look in the mirror as see _how much of him there is in her_.

She’s Starlight. Her brand is white and gold and he’s starting to stain her edges with the dirt and blood on his hands. She’s starting to become a little too comfortable with it and that’s the real worry.

The woman in the mirror asks, _what are you going to do about it?_

She whispers back, _tighten the leash._


End file.
